


Sheriarty Ficlets

by bluetardisimpala



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Character Death, Character death - Sherlock namely, Cuddles, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:31:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetardisimpala/pseuds/bluetardisimpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So this is what happens when I'm forced to write my NOTP for my best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ew Sheriarty fluff cuddles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Giba](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Giba).



> none of these fics are edited in the slightest I'm not sorry

Sherlock Holmes was ill. Such was an occurrence that rarely came about, but when it did it hit hard. It had begun gradually, slowly, creeping up on Sherlock like a predator stalking its prey until at last it pounced, capturing Sherlock in its clutches. His fever was at heights that no mortal should ever be at, nose running and voice hoarse from the fits of coughing that overtook him. Frankly, he was a state, and James Moriarty was having none of it.   
“Eat the damn soup, Sherlock.” The aforementioned criminal sighed, trying to shovel a spoonful of utterly horrendous chicken soup into his mouth. Sherlock shook his head stubbornly, nose creasing as his stomach turned at the sight.  
“Absolutely not. I’m already ill, are you trying to kill me altogether?” Sherlock snapped, temper short with annoyance at his condition. He wasn’t capable of being a patient, sitting by idly while people fussed over him. As lazy as the consulting detective was, he needed action, something to keep him going. His mind was going to dull with the lack of stimulus it was receiving, and he was about to go mental because of it.   
“Hilarious, now shut up and eat. You’re boring when you’re ill.” Jim whined, spoon clattering into the bowl as he gave up on trying to force-feed.  
“You’re always boring.” Sherlock grumbled in the most childish way he could manage, turning his head away with a huff.   
Frankly, it was times like these Jim was unsure as to how he put up with the man. He was exciting, certainly, an incredibly fascinating plaything when he was in the mood to join in on his little games, but he was an absolutely insufferable child. It was equal parts endearing and frustrating and he hated it. Hated Sherlock. Or so he told himself, at least. Sighing his annoyance, Jim settled for placing the bowl on the coffee table beside the couch in which Sherlock was settled, standing up with a stretch.  
“Fine. Sleep and be boring, then. I’ll go play with Sebby.” Jim snapped, about to turn away when a hand clutched at his sleeve, irritatingly feeble and trembling with exertion. He didn’t know whether he wanted to break it or hold it.   
“Stay.” Sherlock murmured after a moment’s hesitation, voice unsure. He wasn’t accustomed to wanting physical comfort, but with Jim he found he made a lot of exceptions. Too many, in fact. “Stay with me, for a while? I’m sure Moran can wait.” He cleared his throat, looking at Moriarty expectantly – there were two ways this could go, of course. Jim could snap and storm off in a childish fit of annoyance, or he could settle down for a bit of boredom. Allow them both to have their minds go blank for a while.   
It took a moment, a pregnant silence stretching across a lifetime before Jim finally spoke, quiet and gruff and still containing all of that irritation, with just a touch of something else that neither of them dared to identify for fear of what it meant. “Fine. Move over.” He grumbled, waiting until Sherlock had created a sufficient amount of space before climbing onto the sofa beside him. Arms wrapping around Sherlock’s torso, he watched the consulting detective tuck himself into him, head burying in his neck as he grew comfortable against him.   
This, he supposed, was tolerable. Human contact, sentiment, all of it, - he could tolerate the majority of it for the excitement that came with Sherlock Holmes, he imagined. But the future was a long way away, and for now Moriarty settled on allowing his mind to grow blissfully quiet, face burying into Sherlock’s curls as he planted a kiss on his head, brief and so soft Sherlock would later grow to think he imagined it.   
He could tolerate this, cuddles with an ill detective and whispers of kisses against clammy skin.   
After all, there was plenty of time for excitement later.


	2. Christmas fic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still not edited

Christmas is stupid.   
Sherlock was a rather firm believer in the above statement, although never had he believed it quite so much than at this party. All around him people were drinking in masses, flirting and lying and cheating and snogging and it was utterly absurd. Snippets of idiotic conversation could be heard, ranging from “And I said to him, I said, ‘Good riddance, you bloody bollocks’, and he just up and left! Like, can you believe him?” to “Damn, that girl was fine. Reckon we could get her number?” Both cases were tied in stupidity, causing Sherlock’s face to crease with disgust, arms crossed stubbornly over his chest.   
“Imbeciles.” Sherlock murmured, although another voice chimed in with his own at precisely the same moment, causing the startled detective to look up. What he saw wasn’t a particularly unpleasant sight, albeit an unexpected one.   
“Moriarty.” Sherlock snapped, gaze darting around frantically for any sight of his flatmate. “What on earth are you doing here? I’m in resolutely no mood for your games, and if John-“   
“If John catches me here he’ll kill me, I’m well aware love.” Jim drawled, voice dripping with disinterest as he tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve, moving to drag him outside. “I’ve come to rescue you, not bore you. You and I both know we’re not ones for social gatherings such as this.” He continued on, giving the disgruntled Sherlock no choice but to follow.   
“You’re absolutely ridiculous, you realize.” Sherlock snapped, a soft ‘ooft’ escaping him soon after as he collided with Jim’s back, the consulting criminal having stopped abruptly in his tracks. An almost childlike glee on his face, Jim turned around to look at the taller man, grin wide and boisterous. One could almost believe he was innocent, if one wasn’t aware of what he had done in his past.   
“Mistletoe, darling.” Jim gestured upwards, sounding utterly delighted with himself as he reached up and planted a firm, if sloppy, kiss upon Sherlock’s lips.   
He tasted like mint and gunpowder and smoke, of blood and twisted promises and excitement, and despite Sherlock’s better judgement he wanted more of him and this and all of the adrenaline that came with it. Just about to melt into the kiss, Jim pulled back just before Sherlock got the chance, looking utterly smug and entirely satisfied.   
“Don’t go getting too excited, Sherly.” Moriarty sing-songed, entwining their fingers together as he dragged him along once more, into the snow covered London and away from the mistletoe that had started something entirely dangerous and brilliant. “We have places to go, people to threaten. Shall we paint the down red? Literally, of course.”  
And with that, with everything that had happened, the chase began again. Arguments and insults and sarcasm and want, all thrown together in the whirlwind that was their relationship. Somewhere along the line something had shifted between them, made them something more than just enemies magnetised towards each other. Perhaps it was during the kiss, perhaps it was long before it, but either way something had happened.   
Sherlock was entirely content to let the change stay.


	3. Astronomy oops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still not edited do i even need to say this anymore

“Why are we doing this, exactly?” Sherlock inquired, watching in amusement as Moriarty attempted to set up the telescope – attempt being the operative word.   
“Because you have an absolutely shameful lack of knowledge in astronomy, and I want to educate you.” Jim murmured absentmindedly, barely paying any heed to the consulting detective as he struggled with the stand.   
All of this had begun with a simple argument, - Sherlock couldn’t quite recall what the argument had been about specifically, but Jim had eventually said something relating to being tempted to ship Sherlock off to Jupiter in tiny chunks of flesh when Sherlock had asked where, exactly, Jupiter was. Jim had been astounded and appalled, and thus began this little adventure – three nights later and here they were, in the freezing cold fields of England’s countryside, attempting to set up a telescope.   
“It’s not like we’re going to see any planets, isn’t it too murky for that?” Sherlock inquired, sounding utterly bewildered as he finally got up from where he had been sitting to trudge over to the struggling man, nudging him aside and setting up the telescope himself.   
“Yes, well, at least you’ll see the stars. I can show you some constellations, if we can find them.” He grunted, giving a pleased sort of sound as the telescope was finally up and running. All but shoving Sherlock to the side in his eagerness to focus it, Moriarty soon began fiddling with the telescope, adjusting it this way and that until at last they found a cluster of stars, bright against the stark night sky.   
“Look, look!” Jim yelled in his excitement, grabbing Sherlock’s hand and dragging him over, adjusting his head into position as though Sherlock couldn’t do so himself. “Isn’t it pretty? Oh, how they burn – think of the amount of bodies we could hide if we dumped them in one of those.” Moriarty sighed dreamily, and Sherlock couldn’t stop the huff of amusement from escaping him.   
“You’re a twisted man.” He murmured, not sounding entirely bothered by it as his held onto Jim’s, still looking up into the night sky.   
“You like it.” Moriarty retorted, and with a quick peck on Sherlock’s cheek they soon began the lesson once more, Jim pointing out several constellations and stars while Sherlock merely nodded and grunted when appropriate, not paying an ounce of attention.  
Settled like this however, with Jim’s hand nestled in his own and a few quick kisses passing between them in the pauses between Jim’s statements, Sherlock found he wouldn’t mind a few more lessons in astronomy.


	4. Cancer!lock 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check previous notes

Dying had never been a particularly big deal for Sherlock Holmes. He had always expected he’d die young, in a fit of fire and glory and adrenaline and passion, with the taste of gunpowder and blood and dirt in his mouth. He expected to die on the job, doing what he loved. He expected to die leaving something of himself behind, some glory splashed onto the pavement in the form of his blood.  
He never expected to die like this, through something as boring as cancer.  
He never expected he’d regret going.  
Over time spent with James Moriarty, Sherlock found the hatred and fascination he originally felt growing into something more. Sentiment and lust and envy and need, all rolled into one big mess at the very centre of Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock contemplated growing old, for the first time in his life. Contemplated retiring in the country with a colony of bees and a consulting criminal by his side.  
Growing old had never been on Sherlock’s to-do list, finding it boring and lacking class. He found it was all too tolerable with Jim by his side.  
His time, however, was cut short. Today was the day he ended it all – the tumour in his brain had wiped out a lot of his deductive reasoning, allowing no room for any newfound information or memories. Every day was new, but his past was still fresh in his mind, the past before his temporal lobe had been affected. He could remember the cancer and what he had agreed to, and now he finally decided it was time.   
Hand trembling, Sherlock picked up the pill, gaze flickering upwards to the man who stood with him throughout. John Watson had already moved on, found his wife and his family. Moriarty? Moriarty was his, now and forever, an endless constant in his life. Security. He never expected that to happen.   
“Are you ready?” Sherlock asked, eyebrow arching as he tried on a feeble smile and failed. Comfort had never been his strong point.   
“Of course I’m not ready, you imbecile.” Moriarty murmured, face rigid. He was trying so hard not to betray emotion, - sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. But oh how they felt it, and oh how this hurt. “Let’s just get on with it, shall we?”  
With that, Sherlock gave a nod, placing the pill into his mouth and knocking it back with a pint of water. It would take but a few minutes to kick in, and Moriarty was with him the entirety of the time. This would be the last face he ever saw, and God was it a good way to go out.   
“I’d say I’d miss you, but I’d be dead.” Sherlock murmured, moving from the table to position himself on the couch, Moriarty already moving forward to nestle down next to him. “I doubt dead men feel much in the way of emotions.” Sherlock continued on, tucking himself into Jim with familiarity – how many times had they done this? Nestled together after a chase or a fight or a bout of spontaneous romance, the aftermath of their passion dwindling down into a simmering ember, just enough to heat the coals but not enough to light the fire.   
They’d never do this again.   
A pang of panic spread into Sherlock’s chest at that, causing him to tuck his head further into Jim as the man released a soft sigh, hand coming to stroke through Sherlock’s hair. “I’ll miss you.” The criminal murmured, the first admission of sentiment they’d ever experienced. It caused a small smile to cross Sherlock’s face, but it faded quickly after. The medicine was already kicking in.   
“I suppose, seeing as this is my last chance, I might as well say it. I-“ Sherlock began before Moriarty silenced him, a long, pale finger touching his lips. “Don’t. Don’t you dare. I’m not living with those as your last words.” Moriarty snapped, and his voice betrayed his emotion. He wasn’t capable of handling this.  
Nodding, Sherlock instead settled into silence, eyes closing as the edges of his vision blurred black. He was fading, his mind quieting, and he was content.   
“Then I’ll just say goodbye.” Sherlock murmured, voice muffled in Moriarty’s neck, and it was three short breaths later before he was gone, body stiffening and temperature chilling until there was no doubt he was gone.   
Yet Moriarty still clung.  
He clung to that dead body like a lifeline, sucking in breaths as though he was a man drowning at sea. Sherlock’s body was the ocean, dragging him under, and he couldn’t help but to follow and try to gasp in the oxygen as best he could. He was failing and he was dying and God, he missed that man already.  
So he clung until the police came and the ambulance tried to take him away, and clung when they carted them off in the ambulance. He clung until he could cling no more, and it was only then that he collapsed. Sherlock Holmes was gone, and Moriarty was alone once more. Forced to wander this twisted, boring world on his own, with nobody of his own mind to accompany him. There was Sebastian, but he was no Sherlock Holmes. There was no Sherlock Holmes.  
There never would be again.


	5. Cancer!lock 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally nobody but giba will read this why am I still noting

It was not something Sherlock had ever really considered, losing his eyes. They were always something of a constant in his life, not something to pay attention to. They were just there, useful and boring, picking up the details his mind stored away and assisting him with cases. They were tools, apparently attractive to the opposite sex, and occasionally the same.   
He didn’t think he’d ever be in the situation to actually miss them, but here he was, and they weren’t even gone yet.  
A type of ocular cancer known as melanoma had spread to both of his eyes, and had spread into such a state that there was no chance of recovery for his eyes. The tumours were great, his eyes rendered useless, and while he could still just about see even that small comfort would soon be gone.  
He never did like hospitals.  
Of course, there was one saving grace, as temperamental and utterly childish as that saving grace was.   
James Moriarty. The pair had found themselves coming together despite their supposed status as arch enemies, and they had been rendered somewhat inseparable. One might say that Sherlock had replaced John Watson with Moriarty, - as a flatmate, as a best friend, as a source of companionship Sherlock had never before achieved. Sherlock disagreed, as John and he were still rather close, but the opinion was understandable. Their romance was passionate and improbable and utterly crazy, and it was the one thing keeping Sherlock steady.   
Except, of course, for when Moriarty had snapped.  
The man was a child, anxious and upset and blaming Sherlock for all of this, and they had had an argument of rather considerable proportions once Sherlock had confirmed he was getting the operation. It began, as many things are wont to do, with a thrown piece of china.   
“You’re so boring!” Moriarty yelled, storming about the flat as he picked up random objects, anything he could find, tossing them at Sherlock and at the telly and at anything else he could find.   
“How are we meant to have our little games, hm? What is the point of you without your damn eyes? You’ll be dull. Oh, God, you’ll be dependent on me. I wanted a partner, not a damn child!” Moriarty had continued, on and on and on, his tirade never ending. Sherlock understood.  
It was all too reminiscent of arguments with Mycroft once he took Sherlock’s drugs away, yelled insults and thrown cutlery and absolute chaos. It was caused out of fear, and Moriarty was no different. Frankly, he was more emotional. He was terrified, and Sherlock understood. He was fairly scared too.  
Settling down on the couch, Sherlock had waited until Moriarty was quite finished, chest heaving and cheeks flushed and eyes damp – the consulting criminal would never admit to such a thing, but he didn’t have to. Sherlock understood.  
Arms outstretched, face plain and eyes taking in all he could, drinking up every last drop of the masterpiece before him, Sherlock said nothing. He waited, watching carefully and patiently and silent, his arms an offering rather than a demand. And soon Moriarty was running into them.   
Sherlock didn’t close his eyes, not for one moment. He kept his gaze on the bundle cradled to his chest, clinging on tight and shaking from rage and fear and sheer emotion. So human. So stupidly human. They both were.  
It wasn’t so disgusting anymore.  
It was minutes, hours, before the two finally pulled back, Moriarty’s cheeks dry although the patch on Sherlock’s shirt proved that he had by no means bottled it up. Giving a hesitant sort of smile, Sherlock cleared his throat, hand settling over Moriarty’s cheek for a moment. Taking him in. He didn’t have much time left to do so.   
“Call me sentimental, but I’d like for the last thing I see to be you smiling. It’s horribly unattractive when you get moody.” Sherlock drawled, although his voice didn’t quite hold the capacity to be sarcastic. Not right now. But Moriarty got the point, and like the good little actors they both were, they smiled. Hell, they laughed. They drank in the sight of each other because Sherlock didn’t have long left to do so, not long at all, and they needed to.   
They pretended, and they could almost believe it.  
Almost.


	6. Dialogue fic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluff after the cancerlock oops not sorry

“I think you should marry me.”  
“Pardon?”  
“Marry me. I’m bored.”  
“Isn’t this one of those things where there’s meant to be some grand gesture of sentiment? A bouquet of roses perhaps?”  
“Dull, and you hate roses.”  
“Fair enough.”  
“So?”  
“So?”  
“The marrying thing. Willing?”  
“Might as well give it a shot.”   
“Glad that’s sorted then.”  
“Jim?”  
“What?”  
“I-“  
“Yeah.”  
“Yeah?”  
“I know. Me too.”  
“Good.”  
“Good.”


	7. Tear My Canvas Skin Apart

Sherlock used to enjoy painting.

It was something he had taken great pleasure in through the early years of his life, finding beauty in splashing paints of different types atop a canvas, watching a scene unfold before his eyes armed with only a brush and a pallet. He adored the mixtures of the shades, the beauty he could create with different hues of the same colour all moulding and melding together, swirls and patterns of the utmost beauty. 

He was fifteen when he found a canvas of a different kind.

Pale flesh became his starting block, his paints replaced with blood. The beauty of painting instead became the beauty of sensation, of feeling real. The biting pain became his muse, the razor his brush, until he couldn't remember how to paint in any other way. His only colour was red. The only hue was blood. 

\--

He had stopped painting once he got out of rehab. Cases became his new art, treating it with the same reverence he used to have for his paintings. He found an outlet for his intelligence, a distraction from the emotions he so desperately tried to chain away, and above all he began to find some measly amount of happiness. This happiness inflated, of course, by finding John.

Of course, he lost all of that now.

He no longer had Lestrade to feed him cases, not now he was associating with Moriarty, John, for the moment, refused to speak to Sherlock, angry at what he viewed as a betrayal. Molly, and Mike, and everyone Sherlock might have felt something for at one point had turned their gazes away, and he couldn't blame them. After all Moriarty had done, of course he couldn't.

Sherlock still didn't regret his decision to stay with the former consulting criminal.

But now, he had no outlet. The pain was back tenfold, and he couldn't take much more of it. His old canvas was barely mended now, the stitches from where the fabric was patched together still showing, but he could still paint on it.

There was still room for red. 

\--

Moriarty found him that very night in their bedroom, scarlet staining the white sheets in a way that made Moriarty's stomach turn. At first, he was angry. God, he was so angry. How dare Sherlock harm himself in such a way? What was that fool thinking? Moriarty wanted to be the only one to leave marks on that alabaster skin, the only one to make Sherlock's blood bubble up from the surface. Moriarty wanted to be the one to wreck Sherlock, not have Sherlock self destruct.

It was only in the early hours of the morning, when all was silent and the world seemed still, that the sadness creeped in.

Frankly, Moriarty didn't want any of that anymore. Of course he had wanted it initially - he wanted to break Sherlock into tiny pieces and build him back up again, only to repeat. But then that stupid chemical defect known as - dare he say it, - _love_ got in the way, or something as close to love as Moriarty could manage. He detested it, but he didn't want to hurt Sherlock anymore, and he most certainly didn't want Sherlock to hurt himself.

So, at three in the morning on a dark Thursday night, Moriarty climbed back into bed with that ridiculous genius. Arm snaking about the detective's chest, Moriarty pulled him closer, burying his face in his hair as Sherlock stirred beneath him. Waiting until the man was fully aware of his surroundings, Moriarty hesitated before speaking, voice muffled by the mass of curls he had nuzzled into.

**"Let me be the only one to tear that canvas skin apart."**


End file.
